


and three thousand miles away

by twigcollins



Series: hawkes and hounds [5]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-20
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twigcollins/pseuds/twigcollins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An interlude at night, dreams and memories.  Mid-act II. F!Rogue Hawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Elbow's 'The Bones of You'

The south wind comes up hard through Lothering in the winter, icy fingers clawing at the boards, piling up drifts even taller than a man. It’s the second time in a handful of hours that Hawke’s heard Carver’s careful footsteps on the roof, shoveling it clean, making sure the flue can vent the fire Bethany is so careful in tending. If it were summer, time would still have little meaning, but here in the dead of winter it’s even more difficult to care if it is night or day. The whole world rests with Malcolm Hawke at its apex, waking when he wakes, snatching a few moments sleep when his rest is peaceful. Hawke knows she is not the only one to sit guard and watch her father’s chest rise and fall, afraid for some trick of the firelight that might conceal the moment when it stops. As if being there will somehow make the difference.

He stirs, shifting, and opens his eyes - blessedly clear this time, not marred with pain or confusion. Hawke leans forward, a cup of water at his lips before he can ask for it, her other hand against his brow. Hot, but not as hot as before - Bethany’s last potion has done some good, though it can only soothe the symptoms of the sickness that has him in its grasp. No cure. No cure, and he hadn’t told them all this time. It was almost as if he’d planned it all, collapsing just as the worst of the winter snows swept in, so that even reaching the neighboring houses was no easy matter.

“Were you Fade walking?” Hawke tries to keep her tone light, and nearly succeeds.

“No, not this time.” It hangs in the air, _not yet_. And when he does, he won’t be coming back. What will happen, after? Where will he go, and what if he’s in danger there?

Of course they’d all argued over what to do, quietly, where Mother couldn’t hear. Bethany was ready to give herself to the Circle if they’d send someone back to help him, and Carver had pushed for Denerim as the only place they had any chance of reaching. All the while, Hawke had been madly wishing for impossible things: for speed and time and that she’d seen through the lie sooner. Ready to travel to the ends of Thedas and beyond, to seek out the ashes of Andraste herself if that was what it took to save him.

The reason Father had kept his silence, to keep them all from doing the stupid, desperate things he knew they would. Even when he’d fallen there had been no words, only a few red droplets on the snow, the sound of his staff hitting the hard ground and Bethany’s panicked cry.

“Where’s your mother?”

“Resting with Bethy. Do you need her?” Hawke’s heart pounds, even though her voice is calm. He’ll ask for Mother at the end, she’s sure of that. He’s already spoken to Bethany and Carver in private and Hawke has stood outside the door each time, just in case, though she doesn’t know what she’s expecting or what she will do when it comes.

“It’s all right. Let her sleep.” He licks his lips weakly, and Hawke gives him another sip of water, though even that seems enough to exhaust him.

She should have known sooner, should have noticed that he’d been shortening his walks, and taking naps in the latter half of the day. He had been the one to teach her to pay attention, to _always_ pay attention - why hadn’t she seen it from the start?

Bethany had thrown every bit of magic she had into Father when they’d gotten him back to the house, a mad roar of chaos with Hawke shouting and Carver shouting back and Mother with her hands against his slack, gray face, her voice rising higher and higher into a panicked scream when he wouldn’t open his eyes. Only Bethany had been silent and still, working methodically through each healing spell she knew, everything he’d ever taught her. Using up all the power she had, until she was down on her knees with a hand against the floor and gasping for breath.

They’d always kept a few lyrium potions hidden beneath the second stair, for emergencies or the ever-present possibility of a Templar raid. No one had protested when Bethany downed them all, one after the other, though in the end Hawke could only hold her sister as she sobbed, pressing her face into Hawke’s shoulder to stifle the sounds. As if her silence had fooled anyone, the whole house steeped in misery. Hawke had listened to their mother crying over Father while he slept, and Carver weeping quietly in the kitchen when he thought no one else was awake.

A few tears slip free now and then, and it hurts to keep them down but Hawke is ruthless, forcing everything to where it can be ignored and forgotten. She demands stillness from her hands when she notices she’s drawn her blades, spinning them in tight, frustrated circles and when she can’t bear it anymore she escapes to the attic rooms, pacing back and forth, keeping each step silent and watching her breath cloud in air until she’s so cold her fingers refuse to bend. Hawke needs to be steel and silence - this is just the beginning. It’s only going to get harder, though she can’t let herself finish that thought, can’t start planning for the _after_ without her mind going blank in horror.

“Please don’t be angry with me, pup.”

As if she could deny him anything, especially now, with his voice wavering with each word. Her father, who taught her how to fight and why, and the love she feels for him tightens around her throat. The room is hot but the chill wind’s hooked right around her ribs and is pulling so hard.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He always has before, the things no one else needs to know about. The two of them sneaking off to pester a stubborn Templar patrol into giving up and going home, or handling some request from the Collective that would only upset Mother if she knew. No matter how dangerous or foolhardy, he’s never kept the worst from her. They’ve always been a team, until now.

“If I was a mage…” Hawke looks down at her hands, clenching them into tight fists. It isn’t the first time she has wished for it, to see the world like he does, to know what he knows. Maybe this time she could have done something, even though Bethany is as strong a healer as anyone could be, even those mages her Father knew in the Gallows. If she _knew_ , though - if Hawke was a mage she might _know_ , and her father shakes his head slightly, though all his movements are slight now.

“Wouldn’t matter, dearheart. You can’t solve every problem.” A ghost of his usual smile, still amused and never bitter, even when he is powerless. “Not every problem is a problem.”

“I can’t tell the difference.”

“I know. Taught you that myself. ’m sorry.”

“No. No no no.” An admonition that turns into a plea, and Hawke forces herself to stop. She realizes they’re having the conversation he’s had already, with Bethy and Carver and Mother. The one she’s been avoiding, as if refusing to listen might be enough to make him stay.

The wind roars again, hard enough to rattle a few of the boards, as if its determined to tear the house down around them. With two mages it had always been easy to keep things cozy, though now Bethany uses all she’s got to keep things warm in this room, sparing just a little for the kitchen. None of them will stray far from his bed, preferring to sleep in the chairs around the table downstairs for what little rest they get.

The sound of ice skittering across the roof, and then a curse, just over the wind, that suggests Carver had nearly followed it down. Hawke snorts, and her father lets out a laugh, though it swiftly turns into a cough that goes on and on until Hawke is bracing him, one hand at his back and her arm spattered with his blood and every time his body shakes it goes through her like a knife. He feels so fragile, bones and sinew shifting beneath her hands like something poorly constructed. Hawke remembers when she was a child, her small hand in his, and he was tall and strong and invincible. She forces herself to breathe steady, until he’s breathing too, though the sound is still ragged and wet as she eases him back to the pillows. His eyes are glassy, not quite focused, as if already looking to a place she can’t see, and she brushes a few strands of hair away from his face to bring his gaze back to her, while she can.

“You should rest, Father. Keep your strength up.” The words only tremble a little, but he smiles, and Hawke has to look away from the apology there.

“So proud of you, pup. No father ever had a braver daughter.”

“No daughter ever had father half as mad.” Hawke says, and they share the same grin, fierce and brilliant, echoing back through a lifetime’s worth of adventures, memories that are piercing a little deeper with every breath she takes.

“Take care of them. Protect them. They need you.”

“I will, Father. I swear it.”

“Of course you will. You’re a Hawke.”

Soon to be the only Hawke. Half of Lothering already calls her nothing else, and she bows her head, the sob slashing at her before she can get hold of it, strangle it down. She can’t be him, she’s not smart enough or strong enough and she cannot bear the thought of failing. Hawke’s hands clutch the edge of the blanket, and she promised herself she wouldn't do this but here she is, begging for the impossible.

“Don’t go, Father. Please don’t go. Don’t go.”

The floorboards creak behind her, and Hawke turns, expecting to see Carver there, brushing the snow off his coat, perhaps hoping she’ll finish up the task. Instead, the figure shifts a little, leaning into the light. Just enough to reveal fair hair and a stranger’s face. Hawke is on her feet, the knife in her hand instantly, ready to attack a moment later. There is no glint of armor, he’s no kind of proper Templar, and her second thought is for her mother, for Bethany, that he would have to go through them to get to her, and she can’t hear Carver on the roof, and Karolis isn’t barking.

“Who the hell are-”

Recognition hits her before she can finish the sentence, though it still doesn’t make any sense. He’s let his hair grow out a bit, and seems a little taller than the last time they met, but it’s Feynriel, even so. Standing in her home in Lothering, before the Blight, before Kirkwall was anything but a place well past the edge of the world she knew, and the whole world tilts oddly beneath her feet.

“Wait. Just… just wait.”

Hawke holds up her open hand, grateful when he doesn’t move, fighting a dizzying sweep of vertigo as the present crashes in to the past and the world shuffles itself into a sensible pattern, fighting to make sense of it all. Hawke turns back, her father still on the bed, still dying, though it no longer seems quite as real, the whole scene frozen in place. The winds have stopped roaring outside, and she strains to listen, but there is no sound at all. The same muted emptiness that felt as if everything was pressing in on her, as unnerving as it had been the last time she’d stood in the Fade.

Oh.

Very slowly, Hawke looks once more at her unexpected visitor. Feynriel looks different in Tevinter robes. Older, and more elegant. Dangerous. Hawke remembers what Marethari said about dream walkers, and exactly what he’s capable of. He seems to follow the train of her thoughts, eyes widening in surprise.

“You’re afraid of me.”

Hawke weighs her options, and the obvious answer that if he’s had time to reconsider all she’d done, if he’s strong now and come back for revenge then she’s completely buggered.

“I did send you to the Circle. I wouldn’t exactly be my best friend.”

“If you hadn’t been there, I’d be a slave now and not an apprentice. If I was lucky.” He smiles a little. “You were trying to protect me. It’s not exactly common.”

“I can imagine.” In a perfect world, there would have been an option other than Tevinter, but whatever else they might be the bastards sure do know their magic, and there had been nothing but to let him go and hope for the best. Still, Hawke had worried, and it’s a relief to see he is much as she remembers. If anything, gaining further control of his power has only made him more careful, even gentle, entirely aware of what he can do with little more than a thought.

Hawke lets go of the knife, not surprised when it disappears before it hits the floor. “So… I didn’t know the Fade had wrong turns.”

Now that she knows it’s a dream, she can’t help but study the walls, the little details of what had once been her home, amazed that she can remember so much. The large chip in the door frame, where Carver had enthusiastically underestimated his broadsword’s reach. The scorch marks on the floor, from all of Bethany’s slight missteps, while Father had taught her to light the stove from a distance.

 _Father._

Hawke doesn’t turn around again, doesn’t need to see that memory stretched before her. It hadn’t been long after that conversation, after all, that he’d called for their mother, and Hawke had sat in the hall on the floor, pressed against the wall and willing every draft to chill her to the bone, pretending the numbness did any good at all.

Feynriel looks embarrassed, glancing down. “I was practicing. I got a bit… turned around, and I was instructed that I could always seek out a familiar face, to help me get my bearings. I didn’t… it felt wrong to look for my mother, so I…” It’s clear how much he’s seen, that this is not at all what he’d expected from her dreams. Hawke’s been there with him at his most vulnerable, though. It’s only right to return the favor. “This was your home, wasn’t it?”

“In Ferelden, yes.” Hawke feels for a moment absurdly like the lady of the house, caught off guard by unexpected company. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have tided up. It looks a little better most days, without the dying father and all.”

Inappropriate humor is as good a tribute to Malcolm Hawke as anything could be, keeping his memory alive every time she can make someone snicker at something they know they really shouldn’t, and Feynriel doesn’t disappoint, looking mortified the moment he chuckles. Maker, but Father would have loved to meet him. It still seems so wrong, that there is a world without him to marvel at it.

“If you want, I could take you somewhere else. Anywhere you wanted to go.”

“A better dream?” Hawke smiles at his awkward kindness. He truly is his mother’s child. “I’d like that.”


	2. Chapter 2

Feynriel’s eyes narrow every now and again, just a little, but apart from that there’s little sign he’s doing anything at all. Well, other than the view. The Fade changes around them as they walk, the land twisting into grasses that rise up and twine once again into trees, with birdsong and wide-petaled flowers blossoming just as she passes, until Hawke finally rolls her eyes.

“Now you’re just showing off.”

“I haven’t even started,” Feynriel says smugly, and they move past the trees, the land ahead rolling out into what is painfully familiar, and he’s telling the truth.

Hawke knows better than to encourage his ego but she can’t help gasping at the sight. It had been difficult to leave even the memory of home, brick and board vanishing back into the Fade, the same bittersweet ache as always, and this, now - he may not be trying to kill her, but this is damn near close.

He’s brought her the endless skies of Ferelden, nothing like what sits above the hills of the Free Marches, but the kind of emptiness that only opens up when there’s nothing at all between her and the horizon line. The clouds pile up above her in vast, impossible kingdoms and so often it had been enough just to sit and watch them pass by. He’s brought her a perfect sunset because he can, suffusing everything with orange honey light, thick enough to drink it in. Hawke knows exactly where they are, the slightest hint of the Wilds as a dark line on the edge of the world, and nothing else but the wind curling around her fingers, the stars about to make their entrance, tipping over to spill across the sky.

“Oh… thank you.” Hawke whispers. She won’t be able to keep it, wonders if she’ll even be able to remember it. It’s still enough.

“It’s easier than I thought it would be. A lot of people don’t take it very well, to have someone walking around in their dreams.”

Hawke shrugs. Anders was the last one to say she was suicidally easygoing - and she’d shrugged then, too. As if there’s any use in worrying about what he can or cannot do - it’s his world, here, and she is just a visitor. What is there to do but trust him? To her credit, when the familiar bark sounds out Hawke does look back, and startle, though Feynriel is still looking up at his created sky, making small, painterly adjustments to the way the light is gathering in the edges of the clouds.

“Um, Feynriel?”

He turns, following her gaze to where Karolis… well, where _half_ of her dog is standing, a few paces away. Tail wagging, he’s balanced impossibly on two paws, perfectly content with being neatly bisected. Hawke steps to the side, as impressed as she is unnerved with the sight, all his innards right where they ought to be, strong heart beating as he sits back on his haunches - haunch - with a yawn.

“I suppose I’d always have the element of surprise on my side.” Hawke muses. “Mother might be a bit put out. More than usual.”

“Oh, Maker’s balls.” Feynriel grimaces. “I can fix that. I can.”

Hawke can’t see how conjuring up a whole mabari can be much more difficult than the entire world south of Lothering, but as Feynriel makes a few small gestures and a few more short curses, she’s treated to every impossible iteration - front half, back half - tail still wagging - until finally the only thing hanging in the air is a shiny, patient-looking nose, and he snaps his hand down sharply to banish it entirely, embarrassment coloring his cheeks.

“Let’s remember I’m not a mage,” Hawke lifts her hands in a placating gesture. “If I could do what you do, the Black City would be the Black Heap of Oddly-Shaped Rubbly Bits Oops Do You Think the Maker Saw That?”

He laughs a little, and she’s glad to hear it, hopes it isn’t as rare as she thinks it must be. Despite having a lot of the money and a good deal of the power, the Tevinters don’t strike her as a real cheery bunch.

Hawke takes a deep breath, knowing the autumn air isn’t really the autumn air, isn’t so crisp and clean - Kirkwall’s air smells of wet stone and fish, most times - and it isn’t fair to miss it all so much because this was the last place her life made any semblance of sense, but she lets herself indulge in it, just for a moment.

“You still wear my mother’s ring.”

Hawke looks down at her hand, the silverite band in place on her finger right where it is in the real world. Varric had made note of it, that even after she’d returned from the Deep Roads and could afford a dozen more fancy baubles, it hadn’t left her finger. A dozen fancy baubles weren’t heirlooms, though, treasured gifts from Dalish women with little else to call their own. Hawke wouldn’t have even taken it if there had been a gracious way to decline.

“I’ve heard that she’s returned to the Dalish.”

Feynriel nods, unsurprised. “I thought she might. I hope she’s happier there. I was… it was stupid, to be angry. To think she didn’t want the best for me, when she’d already given up her whole world for my sake.”

He _has_ changed, grown so much in such a short time. Though it may not seem such a short time in the Imperium, where Hawke imagines he can see every day the difference between a mother’s best intentions and true cruelty.

“Would you like it back? I could…” Hawke starts to slip the ring off her finger, before she remembers. “Bugger, that won’t work, will it? I could send it to you, somehow, I’m sure.”

“If you’ve held onto it all this time, I think you ought to keep it.” He looks at her hand for a moment longer. “What’s that one?”

It’s Hawke’s turn to blush, is what it is, and she twists the dull, dark metal band around on her finger. “… Black Fox’s puzzle ring.”

“Weren’t all of those in Orlais?”

“ _Allegedly_.”

Isabela has given her nothing but grief over her newest trinket, and the admittedly absurd amount Hawke had forked over to gain it.

“All that money on a dingy ring from a man in a sewer.” she’d said, eyes glinting like coins. “I’m more than happy to rob you blind, Hawke. All you have to do is ask.”

“A sewer under the docks, actually. And I think he was drunk,” Hawke had tipped her chin up proudly. “I’m rich. I’m allowed to do stupid things. Fenris, tell her I’m allowed to do stupid things because I’m rich.”

Fenris had raised an eyebrow, taken a drink, and pretended that if he said nothing it wasn’t obvious exactly what he was thinking. The very same thing Feynriel is thinking now.

“I know every Black Fox story my father ever heard,” she says, an impressively pathetic attempt to defend herself, “though I’m certain he came to regret ever telling me the first one.”

It drove Bethany crazy, Hawke forgetting nearly every important name and date she’d ever learned, but able to rattle off adventure tales from any age on demand, especially the ones with gryphons in them. Varric finds her interest nothing but amusing, and he’s been quite happy to tell her a few new Black Fox adventures, along with some variations on the most popular tales.

“Dashing, heroic acts of questionable sanity?” Feynriel pretends to size her up. “No, I’m not really seeing it.”

“… and last-minute rescues, and pledges of eternal love and loyalty, where evil is vanquished and the heroes prevail.” Hawke runs her thumb around the edge of the band. There are markings in it not even the dwarf can decipher, nicks and scrapes that speak of long and devoted wear for such a simple ornament. “If nothing else, it reminds me of him.”

As they’ve been walking, the path has descended into a copse of trees like nothing that ever existed back home, a ravine that had no place in the real Ferelden, but Feynriel seems to know where he’s going and Hawke, well… it had been Fenris, last, to say she was suicidally curious, and Hawke had shrugged. He might have had a point, though it was also true that no one ever found anything worth finding by standing around in familiar places. Still, this is the Fade, and there’s no reason to think she’s particularly good at being in the Fade.

“There seems a distinct lack of demons from the last time I was here.”

“Oh, they don’t bother me much anymore.” Feynriel says, with a certain hard confidence in his tone.

“Tevinter Imperium demon-keeping classes going well? Do you put them in little jars?”

“It’s not…” He looks at her, really _looks_ , and how many times has Hawke been stared at like that? Kirkwall nobles wondering if she’s too Ferelden to understand simple instructions. Darktown bandits wondering if she’s too rich to remember how the game is played. The Arishok wondering if she’s too _bas_ -whatever to be worth talking to, and now this. As if she hasn’t heard enough on dealing with demons from Merrill to knock a Chantry Sister right out of her knickers.

“You know, Feynriel, I couldn’t do a damn thing if you’ve got a pack of them tied up like sled dogs.”

“Oh, no. No, it’s nothing like that. I mean, there are plenty of mages that do have… well, they’ve got rules and history to protect them, most of the time. But even then it can go so wrong, so fast. It doesn’t even…” Feynriel pauses, obviously trying to catch his thoughts into order, and Hawke watches the bits of the trees and stone nearest to him waver, losing their shape as his focus shifts, snapping back into place when he look up at her again. “It’s… different, but no. No, I don’t need to deal with demons. Spirits, sometimes, though so far that’s mostly just to talk. It’s funny, a lot of times they’re just annoyed that I’m mucking about in the Fade.”

“Annoyed? Annoying is good.” No one had said Hawke was suicidally annoying yet, but she was sure it was coming any day now.

The ravine widens up ahead of them, into the promise of a new vista, and Hawke can hear the rush of water, half-certain it will mean they’ve reached the Brecilian Passage, and she’s so looking forward to the forests she knows that when they do crest the small hill, Hawke’s jaw drops again despite herself.

The rush of water is not a river, not a simple waterfall, but a dozen of them or more, all spaced around the edge of a set of high cliffs. A wide semicircle of columns and archways rests inside the curving valley, paths of stone that border pools full of flowers, more of them twined around the pillars, spilling down on long, hanging vines. Hawke reaches out for a star-shaped bloom larger than her hand, and turns nearly a full-circle in amazement. Feynriel’s continued smugness would be insufferable if it were not so well-deserved.

“The Black Fox… and the Hanging Gardens of Peravantium,” she murmurs. Dream or no dream, it’s breathtaking.

The paths beneath her feet rest just barely above the surface of the water, polished ivory marble inlaid with precious stones, and the walkways curve and swirl around the pillars, twisting vines and ivy like curtains hiding what lies beyond. In the tales there were caves tucked away beneath the surface, well-hidden and full of secret, marvelous wonders. The Black Fox had, of course, stolen all the best of these.

“Do you like it?” Feynriel knows very well she does - mages, always the need for drama. “I saw a painting in Minrathous once.”

“Studying?”

“Keeping up appearances,” Feynriel says, though it’s clear he hasn’t been shirking all that much, not to manage something like this. His voice even echoes slightly in the still space, the sound of the waterfalls muted as they move further in. “I’m not sure I got all the colors quite right.”

Hawke hops from the edge of the path to a set of columns rising just above the surface, staring down into the crystal water that goes down and down, seemingly without end. It is not much trouble, to leap from one to the next, though Feynriel saves himself even that small exertion, walking on the water instead.

“Cheater,” Hawke smirks. “You have far too much time on your hands.”

He doesn’t answer, and she glances back, not as surprised as she wishes she were, to see his expression has gone distant and troubled. Building castles out of air, no matter how impressive, can hardly be the most interesting use of his time, and Hawke can’t imagine she’s worth the effort either way. He isn’t here because he got lost, certainly isn’t /staying/ here because of it, and the only question is if she’ll get any answers before she wakes up. No way to hurry that along, Hawke remembers all too well her mother’s attempts to pry even simple answers out of Carver when he was in a mood, and if Feynriel is at all the same he’d just make himself a door to close in her face.

It isn’t as if she doesn’t have enough to keep herself occupied while waiting. The gardens are immense, wide pools reflecting the blue sky, and long-legged, vibrant-winged birds moving about in the shallows, reeds and grasses rustling softly around them. Dragonflies sparkle like delicate jewels, sapphires and emeralds darting through the air as she steps beneath the towering marble arches.

The real gardens are gone, of course, lost for ages though Hawke can’t remember exactly when or why. Maybe it was a Blight, or a war, or just a handful of people who didn’t like each other very much, and had the magic to do something about it.

Hawke brushes aside a pale green curtain of moss, and realizes they’ve reached the center of the garden, a low stone pavilion with the wide, calm lake stretching out beyond, only a single pillar marring its untouched depths. Small, copper-colored fish gather and scatter around the toes of her boots as she steps forward, just enough water to keep the surface of the wide, round dais wet and gleaming. A map of the world, the whole Tevinter Imperium as it once was, and Hawke can see the great Highway stretching all the way down to Lothering, enameled in tiny blue-silver stones. Is it some bit of her memory, or an artifact Feynriel had seen, and thought would fit in here? Or does the Fade itself remember? A few fragments of scattered history surfacing now and then in this land of spirits and demons, like a shipwreck on far and foreign shores.

It’s all so fragile. The world so vast, and wondrous strange - and so terribly fragile. The false sun slips out from behind a cloud that isn’t real, and Thedas lies burnished and gleaming at her feet, Feynriel a dark silhouette on the water next to her.

“I killed a man.”

Hawke feels the chill hit her, though it isn’t surprise or even dread, but something sad and quiet and inevitable. Of course he had. How could it be any other way?

“Was it an order?”

“No.” In a way that says he has been asked, or if not then Feynriel’s expecting it any day now.

“Did he have it coming?”

“Oh, yes.” A soft almost-laugh. Hawke knows that sound, when disgust meets anger and there’s a knife and a target and an easy answer. “It was a slaver. There are so many of them. It’s… you get used to it.” Which means he hasn’t gotten used to it at all, but there’s nothing to be done. No more than she can go and visit Bethany and pretend that making the best of a bad situation is enough, that it’s the way things should be.

“He was beating one of his slaves. It wasn’t - it happens all the time. It’s just the way things are, but… she could have been my mother. She begged for him to stop, and he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. I should have… he didn’t stop, and I couldn’t do anything then. He was breaking no laws, and it would have reflected poorly on my position. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t make trouble.” A shiver of wind slices through the scenery, shockingly cold, trembling over the water and Hawke watches a school of little fish freeze in place, winking out one by one.

“I found him later, in the Fade. It was easy.” Feynriel looks out over the gardens, and Hawke wonders what he sees, what it looks like to know this place as he does. “I wanted to know if I could do it. If I could kill someone like that.” He lets out a bleak chuckle. “When I say it that way it makes me sound like a monster.”

“So, could you?”

The man is dead, but that’s not what Hawke means, and he knows it.

“I wanted him to be afraid, like she was. I wanted to hurt him, and I wanted him to know exactly what he was before he died.” Feynriel is searching for the right words again, but it’s as much for his own benefit as for her own. “I broke… I broke him. He wasn’t a good man. He wasn’t, but I felt it, I felt him die and…” He stops, sets his jaw into a stubborn line. “I don’t regret it. I would do it again, just the same.”

Feynriel is here because he’s afraid of what anyone with sense would be afraid of, and trying to convince himself he’s not. He sounds so much like Carver it’s hard not to reach for him.

“It’s always sad when someone dies,” Hawke says carefully, “either because of who they were, or who they might have been.”

Athenril had laughed at that sentiment, Hawke’s naivety a near-endless source of amusement for her. Frustration as well, so annoyed when Hawke had taken a little too much care in looting a body, with no coin to be made from respect for the dead. Staring as if Hawke were an utter half-wit, when she had unthinkingly moved to straighten out the line of a coat, or tuck down a boot cuff or the edge of a collar. Athenril had thought her so stupid - the simple, sentimental Ferelden - until it had been Hawke’s blade in her gut. Until she’d pushed and Hawke had pushed back and there it was, and there was no way the smuggler shouldn’t have known better from the start.

Time does strange things in a fight, the reason Hawke loves dueling as much as she does. No matter how fast she’s moving, the whole world seems to slow, and in the best battles everything goes calm, and still, and she knows herself there in a way she doesn’t at any other time. A peace that never lingers long once the fight is over.

Hawke loves it, and she fears loving it. Apart from Isabela and their playful, bloodless ripostes there is always a price for that sense of peace, always that moment just before the end. The single, timeless instant when the battle tips in her favor, and her opponent realizes they’ve made the last mistake they’re ever going to. Hawke knows it’s foolish, to feel as if she’s tracing back the whole of their lives with them, every choice they’ve made, every moment from the very beginning to this. She had still known Athenril too well, fought beside her too often not to know exactly how she would attack, how she moved, and how to mirror her every motion and match every breath. When she’d struck the killing blow Hawke had practically felt the knife sink home in her own skin.

The bitter anger in Athenril’s eyes had slipped to shock, and by the time Hawke had eased her former employer down to the street there had been nothing left at all. It had always been business between them, and at the end even that soured badly, but that hardly meant her death had satisfied.

“How do you do it?”

Feynriel asks, as if he’s been listening in on her thoughts all this time, and for all Hawke knows he might be. Really, it would be better than trying to talk it out. Only Varric’s been able to spin her life into any kind of sensible story, with the hint of a moral or a lesson learned. She never intended to come to Kirkwall in the first place, let alone leave so many bodies in her wake.

“No choice? What you love, you protect. I have people who need me, so I fight.” It’s the truth, but it’s not a good truth. It’s no kind of answer. Varric ought to be here, rules about dwarves and the Fade be damned. He’d have some grand words of wisdom from a proper warrior-poet, something worth engraving in stone. “It’s all right to feel it, Feynriel. It’s not supposed to be easy. Even when they’re the worst kind of men, it’s all right to wish there was a better way.”

“If I regret everything, how will I know when I’ve done the right thing?”

“Why not ask me the hard questions?” Hawke smirks, feeling a little winded, and utterly out of her depth. “What works for me won’t work for you, anyway. We’re not the same.”

“You’re not a mage.”

“I’m not _important_ ,” Hawke raises a hand when he tries to protest. “I stab more things than I get stabbed by and call that a good day. At my very, very best, I’m going to be a story to tell when everyone’s drunk and out of Black Fox adventures. The tale of some idiot Ferelden who ran a bit mad in the Free Marches for a while. You, though… you’re special. You have the power to make a difference, to do great things.”

“What if they’re not great?”

“Planning a reign of terror already, are we?” Hawke can’t help but tease. “You know, I might want in. I’ve got a list.”

“Is the Knight-Commander on your list?” Feynriel says, with that hard tone sends that flicker of a chill through her again. He lifts a hand, crooking his fingers a bit, and there’s a splash in the distance, a pair of birds lifting up into the sky, only to vanish mid-flight. His voice is soft when he speaks again. “The Ariqun? Or the Divine? I think I could do it. Not now, but someday.”

Offering up Meredith’s head on a plate, and Feynriel wants to know if she would accept it, and what is right to do, and what is best. It’s stupid to pretend the temptation isn’t there, and who says it wouldn’t save lives in the end? The Knight-Commander knew about Alrik, Hawke is certain of that. Of course Meredith could cast aside his more fanciful and nightmarish plans without ever reining in his sadism. Kirkwall has more than enough mages, that she could afford to sacrifice one or two as long as he remained loyal, with his connections or rank or whatever it was that had made him so valuable to begin with. Alrik had obviously been useful, where girls like Ella were not - but Meredith is not the only leader to make such cold calculations, and Kirkwall does not forgive weakness. There are those who would use the Knight-Commander’s death for the kind of celebration with a body count attached, Templars and civilians and Maker knew who else. If Hawke has learned anything, it’s that things are never as simple as she’d like them to be.

 _You wouldn’t give a damn for her reasons, if it had been Bethany in Karl’s place._

It’s true. There’s a reason Justice doesn’t like Hawke much. Maybe this is it.

“I wouldn’t bother with the Divine if I were you. They’d just dust off a spare, stick her in a chair, and life would go on.” Hawke looks at Feynriel, and wonders if she’ll think back to this moment someday, and wish she’d done it all differently. “You want me to tell you not to kill anyone, when we both know that’s not going to happen. You want me to tell you how to keep from making some horrible mistake, and Maker, I would give anything to know the right answer to that.”

“Why didn’t you turn me Tranquil? I was told… my master said he was surprised you let me leave. It would have been easier.”

“Oh, to the Void with _that_ ,” Hawke half-snarls. Uncertainty always makes her nervous, and being nervous makes her grumpy, but that doesn’t mean giving up. “Easy isn’t better, it’s just easy.” She’s thrown up a hand in annoyance, and casts it out wide, to the dream, this beautiful, lost world. “The people who tore all this apart, the man you killed, and every bastard like them, they’re not going to stop if we’re afraid to act. They’re perfectly happy to go around being bastards no matter what we do. So is it crazier for me to believe in you, or to think anything in this world can be saved with cowardice and half-measures?”

The world holds no certainties, not a single one, and Hawke only wishes once in a while that she could delude herself into thinking otherwise.

“You believe in me?”

Is it more amazing that Feynriel has to ask, or that it really seems to matter what she thinks?

“Are you telling me you _really_ miss it, when you were just some half-elf in an Alienage?”

He doesn’t answer, not for a long moment, though when he does, his smile is exactly the kind Hawke likes to see.

“No.”

“Good. Now we can pretend everything I just said won’t come back to bite us both in the ass.”

“I suppose it’s a good thing you’re never wrong.”

Feynriel’s smile slips into a boyish grin, stripping away all the authority convened by his fine robes, and Hawke is so proud and so afraid for him. Afraid of what the world will throw at him for daring to be strong, all her inspiring speeches be damned. And in the end all she she can do is let out an exaggerated sigh, hiding that real worry with mock dismay.

“Why _do_ people insist on listening to what I say?”

A throaty chuckle carries across the stillness, and for half an instant Hawke thinks _desire demon, obviously_ but Feynriel doesn’t seem unduly worried and really, truly, even a demon has to have limits to their ridiculousness.

It is quiet enough to hear every drop of water spill and splash as Isabela lifts herself up slowly onto the plinth in the middle of the lake. Nude to the waist, dark hair falling down her shoulders and not quite so much over her breasts. As magnificent a sight as ever, but Hawke’s attention can’t help but fall to what’s going on past her waist, the curve of her thighs gleaming odd and greenish-blue. Instead of legs, she wears a long, unbroken line of scales, cascading down into the edge of a translucent tail that flicks up to cast a few drops of water, sparkling gems that hang in the air.

Mermaid Isabela winks at her, and laughs again.

“Huh,” Hawke says, “you don’t see that everyday. Well, maybe you do.”

“No.” Feynriel murmurs, as Isabela calmly flicks the curtain of her hair away from where it had dared to attempt the slightest show of modesty, arching her back and humming quietly to herself, tail continuing to flick at the edge of the water. Hawke makes a note to mention it to Isabela - she’s got quite the fine backside, even with fins. “No, not really.”

Hawke’s considering her next pithy remark - there’s just too many options, really - when another hand breaks the surface of the water, rivulets of water sliding along tanned skin and why yes it _is_ another Isabela, just as naked and just as shimmery and beautiful as the first, lifting herself up next to her double.

“So… is this my dream or yours?”

Feynriel doesn’t answer. Hawke can’t really blame him, as the two Isabelas quickly embark on the exact path the real one would take if she were presented with a mermaid’s tail and no clothes and a spare copy of herself to make out with. Hawke hasn’t thought of herself as much of a voyeur until this moment, didn’t really see the appeal.

She’s seeing the appeal now. Definitely a lot of appeal. The whole wet and dripping factor isn’t hurting them at all, either. All right, so maybe Hawke can’t figure out exactly how to get the most out of that whole tail business, but it’s not a surprise the Isabelas have it all figured out.

“Wow, they’re really going at it, aren’t they?”

Who knew mermaids could grind like that? All this time, Hawke had thought scales were supposed to be slippery.

A few water lilies have appeared here and there, dotting the surface of the water, but as they open the white flowers turn into red, red roses, the lush scent quickly filling the air. Feynriel makes a sort of choking noise, nearly the color of a fresh-picked apple himself.

“I should probably… go… at some point.”

“Don’t hurry on my account.”

Mermaid Isabela has the same gold ring in her left nipple as real Isabela. Mermaid Isabela makes the same sound as real Isabela when it is lightly tugged, or flicked, or licked. It’s even more impressive in stereo.

Hawke really needs to consider getting something pierced.

“You might want to keep this in your arsenal, Feynriel. It could be your secret weapon. A nice distraction.”

“I… uh… what?”

“Exactly.”

A pair of hungry, dark eyes catches hers over the curve of an olive-skinned shoulder, and Hawke soon has the singular pleasure of being sized up by a pair of Isabelas, though just one of them can be more than enough to deal with when she’s in that particular mood. Hawke watches them shift their attention in Feynriel’s direction, as if planning a snack with their meal. One mermaid whispers in the other’s ear, and they both giggle, and slide off the rock into the water, quickly swimming their way.

“Hawke,” Feynriel says, although it’s more of a squeak, and she hears his feet splashing in the shallows as he stumbles back, “I uh… I’ll see you later. Maybe.”

“Whenever you’re in the neighborhood. You might want to knock first.”

“What? Oh. _Oh._ ”

Hawke stifles her chuckle, lifting a hand in farewell. She doesn’t look back to see the mage go, but it’s easy enough to feel it when he departs, as if the whole of the world takes a deep breath in, and slowly exhales. Already, she can see the edges of her dream drifting to white, the gardens dissolving back into the Fade, even the mermaids turning to curves of blurry mist on the water. It seems she’s waking up.

 _Oh well, can’t have everything._


	3. Chapter 3

The rain pounds violently against the high windows, and Hawke opens her eyes to a flash of brilliant light - _one vhenan'ara, two_ \- and that’s all she can count before the thunder rumbles down, the wind rising up to rattle the panes. 

It’s warm and cozy under the blankets, at least, with the remnants of the dream tucked in around her, and she smirks into the pillows. 

Isabela the sexy trout. Oh, she’ll just _love_ that. 

The smile fades, Hawke remembering where she’d been before the gardens, before Feynriel had stepped into her dream. 

It’s not the first time she’s dreamed of Father dying, and Hawke tries to let that old hurt go - he’d hate that, knowing she still thought about it - but the memories of home linger, sharper and closer than they’ve been in years. In Ferelden it had often been fun to watch the storms sweep by, curtains of rain that could soak her through so fast it wasn’t even worth trying to find shelter. Hawke would stumble home to an inevitable scolding, her mother shaking her head as Karolis dripped his way to the fire. Compared to it, Kirkwall’s weather had been nigh intolerable, stuck in Gamlen’s drafty, smelly hovel - but here, now? Surrounded by thick walls and a sturdy roof, with nothing requiring her to move? 

All right, so this life of luxury business has its moments.

Karolis rests in the nook of her tucked up knees, his head on her ankles, hogging every inch of the bed he can get, as usual. Orlesians only joked about Ferelden dog-humpers until they had to spend a night in the cold without a mabari or two to cuddle up with, and with the fire banked low he makes for an excellent footwarmer. 

It would be nicer to have Isabela here with her, though no matter how often she comes over, the pirate has always refused to stay the night. Afraid of a scolding from Hawke’s mother, she claims, which is a ridiculous lie but Hawke lets it stand. No way to push the question without turning it into an argument or a demand, and that will have Isabela out the door faster than anything.

Hawke rolls onto her back, mulling over the dream, the parts of it that were more. All so vivid, still - more of Feynriel’s mucking about, maybe - and she tosses a prayer to whoever it is in the Fade and the world that might look out for young men with great power who don’t yet know what to be. Whatever’s wandering out there besides demons and bastards and old, pissed off gods.

The mabari shifts his head, and she scratches behind his ears as another violent crash of thunder comes down almost on top of the blaze of lightning, the rain as steady as a waterfall. It’s likely a river through Lowtown right now, and she can’t imagine that Darktown is any better off. 

Thankfully, Anders has the closest that the Undercity offers for a cozy little nook, the ‘best of the worst’ as he likes to put it. Hawke had taken time out after the last storm to help Merrill with her leaky roof, though of course the Eluvian had been given pride of place in the corner least likely to suffer a soaking, leading to a long discussion over whether or not magic mirrors could get damaged by the weather and if they were really worth all the bother if a bit of water could ruin their day. It was a conversation that went happily nowhere, spinning in endless, entertaining circles, the way it always seemed to go with Merrill. 

Hawke will have to pay her a visit in the morning, and see what’s new that needs patching.

Fenris is the one most likely to be drowned out, with that skylight in the front parlor that - as far as Hawke knows - is still wide open to the weather - and she shuts her eyes, taking a deep, slow breath in, distracted just enough to go thinking of him when she damn well knows better. 

_Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl._

Maker, but she’s been here before - and no, it’s not the same but it all hurts the same, this part where she doesn’t know what comes next. What she’s supposed to do when there’s nothing left to do, when every move she can think of is the wrong one.

She’d been as surprised as Fenris was to see the slavers, though for different reasons - Tevinters sure did count on their arrogance to save them from blind stupidity. Anyone else would have planned a much better ambush for an extremely irate elf, let alone anyone he’d recruited along the way, and though it had not taken them long to realize their mistake it had taken even less time for them to die.

Three years. Three years of friendship and trading wry looks whenever someone mentioned ‘easy money’ in the Deep Roads. Three years of leaving little gifts next to the bottles of wine in his study, carefully re-locking the doors so that she could meet his knowing glares with blithe innocence. 

Three years of losing everything in her pockets whenever she got drunk enough to think Wicked Grace was a good idea, and then walking back with him to his estate and her newly-reclaimed mansion and not always letting Fenris walk her home first, but sometimes yes, she had. Maker, but he had this odd sense of chivalry, and more than once Hawke had paused in her doorway or his, the air heavy with the possibility of more - and Fenris hadn’t taken that last step, even though she thought maybe he’d wanted to. 

It was all right. It was just fine, when being at his side was enough to make her nearly tremble with happiness, the kind of embarrassing, romantic sludge even Varric would be too shamed to pen under his own name.

Three years of the slow, uncertain kindling of more - and then the slavers had come and it was as if none of it had happened. Fenris pulled back and shut down as if she were a stranger. Standing all alone against the world once more, and to the Void with her and everyone else.

_“I didn’t realize you were in the market for a slave.”_

Who was he looking at, who did he even _see_ when he’d snarled that at her? A clear sign of just how badly he’d been rattled, and Hawke had been too stunned, too busy planning out the fight ahead to even think if it should hurt and then they were bearing down on Hadriana and her little nightmare court and it no longer mattered. 

Nothing less fun than backing a mage into a corner, and a blood mage doubly so, but she’d been outmatched from the start and Hawke had the feeling Hadriana knew it. So intent on looking good for Danarius that she’d never really thought it through, never considered Fenris might have found some allies of his own.

The woman had bargained for her life with stolen information, secrets that never should have been secret and weren’t hers to give, and Hawke had seen it then, the look of satisfaction on Hadriana’s face at the shock, the hurt she’d inflicted. Knowing who Fenris was all this time, knowing of his family and his past and she could have told him long ago. Nothing to stop her, nothing save that she was an ugly woman from an ugly place where it was obvious everything, absolutely every bit of information, every thought and feeling was only worth the damage it could cause.

It’s true, what Hawke had said to Feynriel. There’s little satisfaction in killing, even an out-and-out monster like Ser Alrik. No real victory there but that he couldn’t hurt anyone else ever again. Imagine what he might have been, had he wanted to be something more than a useless bastard. Imagine the good he could have done.

Imagine all that Hadriana might have built with her power, her strength, and look what had come of it instead. A whole lifetime’s worth of viciousness, of plays for power and control just to gasp out her last breath on a filthy stone floor, her heart crushed in Fenris’ hand. A damned stupid waste.

He’d wanted to kill her. He hadn’t wanted to kill her. Both were true, and Fenris couldn’t bear it, couldn’t stand the weight of his own mercy and hated himself for having it at all. He’s so damned smart, he can see everything except for what he is, and Hawke doesn’t have the words to make him understand. His uncertainty is such a victory, and he ought to be as proud of it as any other. All that doubt and anger, when so very many would not have bothered with even an instant’s hesitation, not a single backward glance. 

Maker, and Hawke loves him for it, almost more than she can bear. 

He’d had her up against the wall in pure reaction that night, Fenris more shocked than she was when he realized what he’d done, and the look in his eyes, then - uncertain, _lost_ \- and that had forced her hand. Hawke would have done anything to take that look from him, and with as close as he was there was only the one thing she could think - not that she’s ever much for thinking. 

So she’d kissed him.

Worth the three years. Worth three years and thirty lifetimes and a thousand Ages.

So serious, so intent, with the slightest frown on his face when he pulled back, tracing his hands along her side as if she were glass, as if he’d never thrown her about in a training ring. Hawke had laughed then, and the look he’d given her - she’d kissed him again as soon as she could catch her breath, just to make that look disappear as well. The awe there, the amazement, it was too much to see, and so much more than she deserved. As if there’d ever been anything she could do but love him.

He had good hands. Really exceptionally marvelously good hands. 

She never found out if she’d had any bits that he’d liked. She hoped so.

Hawke presses her hand to her chest, the lightning flashing brilliantly even with her eyes closed and doesn’t _that_ remind her - foolish, such an idiot to let it ache like this. It hurts and it’s just going to keep on hurting, and that’s how it goes. Maker, and she thought she’d gotten past it, that she’d been knocked down enough times to know how it felt, that she’d braced herself for every possible - but she hadn’t seen this coming, had she? Having him and losing him in the same breath and this is what you get, silly girl, for thinking you’re so damned quick, that you always win. 

_Don’t. Don’t you be stupid about this now._

It’s hard not to, here in the dark with so little else to think about. No excuse for how she spends the rest of her time mooning like a fool, and oh, how she’d come so close to her first moment of acting the proper spoiled rich girl, wandering the city in a daze the morning he’d left. Coming back to find Orana had done her best to make a good impression by laundering every sheet in the house, not even the chance of burying her face in the pillows to catch some lingering scent of him. 

That had been a day. The next one hadn’t been much of an improvement.

Isabela would have done it all better, surely. It’s not as if they hadn’t talked about bedding him often enough, like two generals plotting for battle, or connoisseurs discussing their favorite way to hang a Velvet Cailan. Conversations that quickly tumbled into the hilariously lewd, bad puns and worse ideas and positions no one could possibly get into or out of without losing at least a few vital parts. Isabela had the lighter touch in these things by far, she would have kept him from feeling trapped, or nervous, or however Hawke had ruined it all but good. She would have laughed away his worries, made sure things stayed at a distance, only simple pleasures and nothing else. Not the dreams Hawke spins out for herself, some future for him, for them - maybe that was what went wrong. 

Maybe he’d felt it in her touch, that she’d already started thinking of how it might be, how she wanted it to be. With as hard as he’d had to live, Fenris still wasn’t much for the trees - she’d be the one sneaking out into the forests, leaving a window open to come back to. A home with him, for the both of them. He was a city boy, downright intellectual whatever he thought - and yes, _yes_ he could even read a very little - teaching himself the barest necessities, a few words here and there, as he’d taught himself everything else. He could read _in Qunari_ a little and he thought she’d been teasing him when he’d written down something he’d seen once in a market, something he wanted clarified only to have her frown over it for the longest time, until Hawke had laughed in amazement - “Fenris… _I_ can’t read this.”

Isabela knew. It was Antivan - which Fenris can _also_ speak well enough to get by. The brilliant, beautiful son of a bitch.

Saemus says the Qunari have a need for perfection, to perform a task without flaw or not at all, but Hawke’s sure Fenris didn’t need to learn that from anyone. He’s so proud, so fierce - he carries himself like a bann, like a chieftain's first son, and Hawke remembers when they’d stood in the Fade with the Pride demon, remembers his faltering words - “to meet them as as equal” - and that is truly the measure of it, isn’t it? Fenris holds himself to the standards of nothing less than those he hates the most. Building himself back up from nothing, a piece at a time with no map and no destination, just the blind determination for something better than what he’s got, and those bastards can still make him feel ashamed for it.

The Magister knows where he is for certain, now, with Hadriana dead. The bastard has to know - and let him come. Fereldens may not be good for much, but they’re not too shabby when it comes to killing Tevinters.

_You want to be a lord, Fenris? Rule over a manor? Meet Danarius with a title and a full wine cellar and an honor guard?_

Hawke could give him that, she could give him that _easy_. Whatever it took, whatever he wanted. Except that the only thing he seems to want is for her to keep her distance. Words like devotion and allegiance just don’t mean what the're supposed to - fidelity as the memory of a chain, loyalty as a thing to despise, and every promise she’s wanted to make dies before it can begin.

He’d asked for her forgiveness, and hadn’t waited for the answer - as if there was anything to forgive. Fenris has had so little control, so little choice - she can’t imagine it, and doesn’t want to, and his words - “too much, too fast” - how does she slight him for that? Fine, it was fine with her except that he had been up and dressed and half out the door before she had even blinked the sleep out of her eyes. Before the words could come together in half-decent sentences like “I’m not angry” or “Take some breakfast with you” or at the very least, “Can you not disappear again when we just got through fighting Tevinter slavers _looking_ for _you_.”

He had no idea how badly he’d scared her, disappearing like that, Hadriana dead and gone but hardly a guarantee of safety. 

It’s what Fenris has always done, though, and she’s the fool to think one night might make any difference. He rarely gives her more than the barest bits and pieces of his thoughts, and only after he’s tortured himself half-mad with them first. Look how far he had to get in the bottle to speak to her of Seheron, and what he’d done, and how she’d ached for him. 

Always ultimatums, always, for himself and for everyone else. All or nothing - but is she so different, then? Stupid girl with her mabari heart that doesn’t know sense. 

Who has the whip hand? It sure as hell isn’t her - she never does, not for this. A terribly simple truth to face, at the bottom of it all. If he leaves, if Hawke loses him now there will never be a moment for the _rest of her life_ that she won’t notice he’s gone. Every day will be an endless parade of glancing over to see what he’s thinking or what unexpected thing he knows or how she might chase up one of his wry smiles - and when he’s not there it will chip off another little piece of her, every night that much darker than the one before.

She’ll lose Isabela too, no doubt of that. The only reason the pirate’s stayed as long as she has is because she knows - she _thinks_ she knows - that Hawke loves Fenris more, that she’s just a placeholder, a convenient distraction. It’s safe to stay because Isabela will always be second best, and if Hawke balances everything carefully, if she twists her words and conceals her truths she can steal those few fleeting moments, even from a pirate queen. She can swear that no, Izzy, no, that’s not devotion, just indifference with good timing. I don’t smile when I think of you. Who wouldn’t want to keep those breasts close at hand? You’re so much _fun_. You’re so strong. You still owe me money. 

It’s just my heart. Nothing to be afraid of. Don’t go. 

Don’t go.

Like trying to love the wind, the both of them. Just when she thinks there’s something to hold onto, a solid footing, it breaks away and she falls. Hawke’s damn good off the mark and she’s trying but she was never the best at this and time has made few concessions in her favor. 

_Just the one. For what it’s worth._

It would be nice to know what it was worth, the red scarf tied around his wrist, the crest he wears - her mark on him, though Hawke never would have asked for half so much, never would have made that demand of him. It’s absurdly romantic, some archaic sort of courtly love that hits her hard, right where it’s supposed to, and she wonders where he ever heard of it. Hardly subtle, either, especially when she has such observant friends. 

Isabela has already glanced from it to him to her and raised an eyebrow, and she’s certain Varric knows everything because Varric always knows everything - but Hawke’s kept her silence because there’s no story she can tell. Varric might know everything but she sure as hell doesn’t, and even the worst unknowing is better than what might happen if she asks.

If he needs her blade he has it. He’s had it from the start and that’s never going to change. If he needs her there, she’s there. 

If Fenris needs her _not_ to be there, not to care, then Hawke will be a shadow. Her love perched on a high branch, so light it won’t even make the leaves shake. 

He is glorious when he is happy, and that’s all she wants, all she’s ever wanted. If what he needs from her is time, Hawke can give it. Whatever he needs, she can give it and gladly. A pile of gold. A dragon’s fang. Danarius’ head in a sack. All of it, and more. 

Please, _please_ Maker, just let it be something she can give.

—————————————-

Karolis whuffs softly, raising his head toward the door, and Hawke lets her hand drop to the side of the bed, where she keeps one of three daggers within easy reach, not counting the knife in the sheath at her ankle, or the two at the other side of the bed. The Black Fox, depending on the tale, slept with five or seven or a dozen blades less than a handbreadth away at all times. Except for those stories where he’d just booby trapped the room, or slept with enough of his well-armed comrades to have half an army ready to assemble as soon as they could all find their pants.

Now there’s a goal worth working toward.

“Trouble, boy?”

Doubtful. If it were, Hawke imagines they’d have attacked already. She can just see the shadow moving outside the door, as if someone is shifting nervously from foot to foot. Karolis isn’t growling - no danger, then, and Bodhan would have knocked by now. Sandal would have gone to Bodhan first, which leaves her with…

Hawke smiles a little, as the mabari’s tail wags.

“Go let her in, or she’ll be out there all night.”

The dog whuffs his agreement, rolling off the bed and onto the floor, trotting to the door. Hawke had tied a piece of rope there, just like every door since she’d brought him home as a pup, and Karolis tugs it open to reveal Orana standing at the threshold, one hand flying to her mouth as she gasps, all wide eyes and a startled panic as the mabari gently herds her inside, brooking no argument.

“H-hello, Mistress. I.. uhm… good evening.”

Karolis pushes his head under her hand, always happy to have his ears scratched, though it does double duty now, giving her a bit of silent support. Orana had been terrified of the dog at first, though the mabari had been shameless in his attempts to win her favor, crawling to her low on his belly and gazing up at her with limpid, doggy affection, until she’d realized there was nothing to fear. Hawke has been less successful in proving herself harmless - Orana still keeps her eyes down much of the time, as she’s doing now, all but bracing herself for whatever might happen next. 

She keeps forgetting she even has a servant, though Hawke has to admit - if somewhat grudgingly - that Mother is right. Without Bethany around to make up for her utter lack of domestic skills , it _does_ help to have someone around to at least pick things up off the floor. So far Bodahn has been good enough to step in and show the girl around, and Mother… well, if she’s slipped back into her old life a little too easily for Hawke’s tastes, there’s nothing worth saying about that. 

Dealing with Mother has never been Hawke’s strong suit - Bethany was the one for that, and without her they just don’t know what to do with each other. She’s lost her son and a husband, let her be happy here in Kirkwall however she means to do it, and if sometimes Ferelden seems more and more a dream for her than the true past… well, Hawke can remember for the both of them.

“Is everything all right, Orana?

Hawke can hazard a guess as to what the problem might be, even as the girl immediately stammers, hands up in nervous apology.

“Oh, n-nothing’s wrong. I didn’t mean, I shouldn’t have-”

The lightning cuts her off, a flash that drains all color from the world, and another roaring rumble of thunder. Orana lets out a tiny shriek, jumping straight up in the air.

Afraid of the storm. Afraid of everything, a little bird fluttering at the edge of every room, bright, sharp eyes taking measure of each word and gesture and trying to find her place, or at least a place she can stay unnoticed. So quiet and so careful and always watching, as if the fact that nothing bad has happened yet is just coincidence, always watching for the inevitable disaster.

It had been the second day, maybe the third that Orana had fumbled a cup as she’d been clearing them away, the thin porcelain smashed to nothing against the stone.

“See, I’m not the only one who can’t hit the carpet.” Hawke muttered. Mother was already fretting, something about the pattern or the color but Hawke had stopped listening, turning to tell Orana she’d sweep it up, so the girl didn’t cut herself on any pieces.

Orana stood frozen in horror, not even breathing, and Hawke had the sudden, absolute certainty that Hadriana might very well have killed her if she was in the wrong mood and a servant - slave - had dared to drop a glass. 

“Mother. It’s fine.” Hawke said steadily, watching the elf girl tremble.

“Oh yes, dear, of course. I just… that was a matched set.”

Hawke didn’t take her eyes off Orana, reaching out to tap the other cup right off the edge, an almost musical chime in the way such fine work shattered.

“Well, look at that, they still match.” 

Mother had scolded her, of course, but Hawke had been too busy grinning at Orana, who finally, finally found the courage to smile back.

_Too bad that never seems to last._

“It’s a terrible storm out there tonight.” Hawke says gently, “Roof spring a leak?”

“Oh, no, Mistress. Nothing like that… I just…”

“Trouble sleeping?”

Orana wants to leave, to beg pardon and run, but the storm frightens her just slightly more than Hawke does. So that’s progress.

“I… a little, Mistress. I wondered if I might…” she trails off, wringing her hands.

Sleep in the doorway, perhaps? Or curl up on the floor and try to find some comfort in it. Hawke is almost certain that’s what Orana’s trying to say and sweet Maker she wants nothing more in this moment than to jump up and down on Hadriana’s corpse a few times and then bowl her goddamned head for Wallop practice. Stupid, selfish, evil waste of a woman. 

“Come on, then.” Hawke flicks back the coverlet from the other side of the bed. “Pile in.”

“Oh! I couldn’t, I mean… I could just, I, the floor…”

“I’m afraid that position has already been filled,” she says, as Karolis obligingly drops down at the end of the bed, giving the girl no choice but to make her way around. It’s not until Orana’s halfway there that Hawke realizes there’s another way to take this all that isn’t so innocent, that even Orana, young as she is, may have - oh, and _there’s_ the anger back again, quickly becoming a fast friend, at the thought of this slip of a girl being forced to… that _anyone_ could be such a vile little…

Head. Wallop practice. Wallop goddamn _championships_.

Hawke’s grateful for the darkness in the room, and even more grateful that Orana pads over with what appears no more than her usual hesitance, gingerly tucking herself in. It seems the girl’s father had done his best to protect her from the worst of everything, from all that he could, and Hawke casts the thought to wherever his spirit may have gone that he can rest easy. Orana’s safe now, and Hawke sure as hell won’t let all he’d done be for nothing.

“Better?” She asks, as the girl settles herself. The thunder rumbles, but it seems maybe a bit more distant, and she doesn’t flinch.

“Yes, Mistress. Thank you.”

“You can call me Hawke, you know. Everyone else does.” By the look on Orana’s face, that’s going to happen around the time nugs fly. “Did you have fun in town today?”

“Oh yes. Messere Bodhan made sure I knew where I was to go, and what to get. I’m learning my way around very well now.”

‘Messere’ Bodhan had also been charged with picking up whatever the girl had an eye for, a lute for their surprise little songbird, and enough clothes to keep her in good standing for the moment, though probably plainer than she would have liked. What Orana thought she was allowed, rather than what she’d prefer. 

Hawke’s utter rubbish in that department, and there’s no way of asking Mother that won’t end with _her_ in front of the tailor’s mirror for hours at a time if she dares to put a foot in the shop. Bethany will know where to go and what to get, all those pretty things. She hates to manhandle Orana so but the girl will hardly answer a direct question about what she needs, let alone what she wants. Hawke has to phrase offers like orders - “Check the strawberries, Orana, and tell me if they’re fresh. Take a few of the big ones, just to make sure.” - or else the elf will demur and drop her eyes and pretend she has no wishes at all. 

She wonders what happened to Hadriana’s estate back in Tevinter, and what would become of all her other slaves.

_Nothing good. Absolutely nothing good._

Orana has nothing to go back to, then, though perhaps she might still to want to write a letter - no, have a letter taken down for her, but then who would be able to even read it and - _Andraste’s skimpy knickers, Hawke, you are truly a special kind of idiot._

It’s nice to have the girl here, familiar and comfortable. Hawke glances over, Orana watching her with those same wide, cautious eyes.

“This brings back memories. Bethy’s feet were always freezing.” Hawke smiles, “My sister didn’t like storms either. Or the cold. We’d always end up huddled together come the worst of midwinter.” 

Wearing three layers of clothes each, with the whole house creaking in the wind and Bethany snickering around chattering teeth when Hawke asked if it was time yet, _please_ , to just set the bed on fire. Carver had fared even worse, all alone in his room, though he’d have preferred to freeze solid than ever admit to as much as a chill. 

“You… you have a sister, Mistress?” 

Hawke blinks, surprised. Of course the girl hasn’t been here long, but she’d sure thought it would have come up, that Mother or Bodhan or hell, Kirkwall gossip -

“If you could tell me which bed is hers, I can make up the room for her when she returns.”

Hawke doesn’t answer, and hears the very slight intake of breath that means Orana thinks she’s said something wrong.

“My sister… my sister is in the Gallows.”

By choice. Maybe not in the going there but definitely choosing to stay, to do what she can to help who she can, just like Father said they ought. It makes her happy, she says. Gives her a purpose, and Kirkwall needs every good mage it can get. Hawke understands that even though she hates it. Even though the news of any new Tranquil sends her heart right up into her throat, every single time.

“That tall tower in the water? The one where mages live? Messere Bodhan said I ought not to worry about it. Your sister… is she a Magister?”

Now there’s a thought. Bethany the Magister? Maybe with a swarm of demon… bunny rabbits, perhaps, to do her evil bidding? As if she’d even come up with any good evil bidding. Hawke would have to pitch in on that - and it would have been hard, wouldn’t it? To be the one without magic, trying to protect her family in a place like that.

“No, they don’t have Magisters here in Kirkwall. All the mages live in the Gallows because they have to. So they don’t hurt anyone with their magic, or each other. The Templars keep them there - and they can’t ever leave.”

Hawke will get into all of it later, politics and Andraste and why half of her friends routinely want to bludgeon the other half and how Orana will need to ignore the fact that Hawke regularly has apostates for dinner guests, but the poor girl’s confused enough already, taking it all in like maybe she’s heard about this before and it didn’t make sense then either.

“Oh. … Mistress Hadriana wouldn’t have liked that very much.”

Hawke snorts. “No, I imagine not.”

“I don’t think your sister would hurt anyone, Mistress.”

The earnest words of someone who is doing absolutely everything she can not to say anything wrong. Heartbreaking, there’s no other word for it, that thin and fragile hope for better days.

 _Steady, Hawke. Steady on._ Just time and patience, keep working and it will turn out all right.

Even the storm’s finally started to roar itself out now, each rumble of thunder quieter than the last. Orana turns, and turns again, trying to move without making a sound. Maybe not afraid but definitely still with something on her mind. 

“Still can’t sleep? Nightmares?” 

The girl shakes her head slightly. “No, but… I do dream about Papa sometimes.”

“I dream about mine, too.” Not just the bad times, but all the days before, and _oh, Father, am I doing any of it right? Is this the way it’s supposed to be?_ “We could go to the Chantry and pray for him, if you’d like. Or Merrill can show you how the Dalish remember those who have gone.”

Orana nods, one or the other, or both. Might as well be both, Hawke’s got the time, and Merrill’s been wanting to meet her anyway. 

“Do… do you think Papa’s happy now?”

“Yes, I do, Orana. I truly do. I think he’s watching over you, just like before. It must make him smile to see you safe.”

“… where did he go?”

Hawke sighs, the silence stretching out as she searches for the words.

“A better place, somewhere beyond the Veil. Quiet and warm and green. A place where no one wants or needs, where everything is peaceful, and safe and good.” Hawke smirks at her own ineloquence, rather far from the Chant of Light. “I’ll get Varric to tell you what I think, all right? He’s better at me than I am.”

“I think that sounds like a good place, Mistress”

A yawn, and a few moments pass and then Orana’s asleep, leaving Hawke to listen to the rain spin itself out against the windowpanes, thinking on that better world. It’s bright there, and sane. All the stupid struggles ended, all enmity set aside - and Father’s there, and Orana’s father, and all the Wardens and all the soldiers from Ostegar and King Cailan and every poor bastard who ever died with nothing to his name. All the Templars who gave their lives defending the helpless and all the mages who just wanted to live in peace. 

Carver wouldn’t be satisfied there, but then he wouldn’t be satisfied being satisfied, so that’s all right.

Hell, Hawke thinks, warm and half-asleep and feeling generous, let Athenril be there too, with everything good in her shining and all the sharp edges the world had cut her into dulled away by joy, and so what if Hawke hadn’t liked her much. Let her go, and be the best of herself, and… ah, let Loghain go too, and if there was anything in Hadriana worth keeping then why not, why not let the smallest spark endure? They say even the Archon found his soul again, there at the end of things, watching Andraste on her pyre.

Hawke rolls onto her side, amused by her own half-assed attempts at exegesis. She’s not sure just how much time passes, barely awake when she feels the small hand press against her shoulder, the elf murmuring in her sleep, holding on to her nightshirt the same way Bethy used to.

Except it isn’t the same. Nothing’s the same as it was, and it never will be again, but different… different’s got enough to recommend it. The storm will pass and the sun will rise, and Orana will be a little less scared and some great new adventure will come knocking at the door.

_And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost._

Just so.


End file.
